


Like A Thief In The Night

by patchworkofstars



Category: Father Brown (2013)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:02:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28320585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patchworkofstars/pseuds/patchworkofstars
Summary: ‘Twas the night before Christmas…Dramatic as ever, Flambeau breaks into the presbytery on Christmas morning to leave a gift for Father Brown. But the priest knows him better than even he realises, and his arrival might not be so unexpected after all.
Relationships: Father Brown/M. Hercule Flambeau
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	Like A Thief In The Night

Kembleford slumbered under a blanket of darkness, the chill air of 3 am spreading a veil of frost over slate roofs and walls of Cotswold stone. Within each home, rooms adorned with decorations waited in silent anticipation of the coming morning, and even the most eager of children had long since fallen asleep. In the village churchyard, tiny white crystals glittered on the headstones under the moonlight, and turned the short grass around them to crisp spikes.

Close by, on an unassuming side street, the presbytery lay as dark as all the rest. Father Brown had been out late, leading the annual Midnight Mass to welcome Christmas Day, but now he too had retreated to his attic bedroom for the remainder of the night. Red and green paper streamers hung in garlands from the walls around him, and the model railway had been dusted with white to give the illusion of snow. He had even stuck a foil-covered star up alongside the crucifix above his bed. Beneath it, he lay tucked up snugly under the covers, an extra patchwork blanket draped over his usual bedding to protect him from the winter chill. He slept soundly within this cosy nest, snoring with his usual vigour.

Had he been awake and looking out through the window, he might have spotted a deeper shadow break away from the darkness of a wall and cast a calculating eye over the building. Then, with a speed that suggested forward planning, a grapple was sent up and found its mark. A slight scraping sound, and then it lodged in place, letting the figure make short work of the ascent.

Onto the roof the figure moved, making its way with catlike grace to where the attic window jutted out. The Father had left it slightly ajar to let the night air into the room, making it all the easier for nimble hands to open it further and allow the man through. Pushing aside the blue floral curtains, he slipped onto the shelf within, pulling the window back into position behind him before the draft could disturb the slumbering priest. Black shoes touched lightly down onto the wooden floor, and the black-clad body straightened up to stand within the room.

He watched the sleeper for a moment with amused fondness, then padded silently over to the bedside table. Perhaps the Father sensed his presence somehow, because at that moment the snoring stopped and he rolled onto his side to face the thief. Flambeau held his breath, but the priest’s eyes remained closed and he slept obliviously on. Relaxing, the thief untied a small bundle from his back, where it had been strapped to keep his hands free. From it, he took out a small package, which he placed on the wooden surface. It was beautifully wrapped in Christmas paper and tied with a ribbon bow, and on the small label, a single letter F was inscribed.

His present delivered, Flambeau found himself reluctant to leave. Why rush off when no one was awake in the presbytery to see him? He may as well take his time and look around, to see what decorations the Father and his friends had put up this year. A few minutes spent among the meagre trappings of a postwar village Christmas wouldn’t disrupt his plans. Quietly crossing the attic floor, he ducked through the doorway and headed downstairs.

Flicking on the kitchen light, he gazed around at the streamers hanging from the walls and dresser, and the tinsel and baubles brightening the tree. For a moment, he lingered in the doorway, the familiar sight and scent of the place filling him with a strange combination of warmth and emptiness. A treacherous whisper at the back of his mind wondered what it would be like to spend Christmas here, with the strange little family the Father had gathered around him. To be a part of that circle of light and belonging, in this place that felt more like home than anywhere else he'd ever known.

He shook the thought away, lighting a cigarette and letting the tendrils of smoke coil through the air around him. There was no point in letting his imagination wander. He had abandoned his only home long ago, along with any dreams of making himself a new one. Works of art would never betray him, and they were far prettier to look at, too.

To distract himself, he stepped over to the table, where presents had been arranged in a small cluster. They had clearly been wrapped with more love than skill, and each one had a name label written in Father Brown's familiar script. Idly, Flambeau cast his eye across them. _Mrs McCarthy, Bunty_ … It was clear they’d been assembled ready for all the people the Father expected to drop by the presbytery on Christmas Day. An affectionate smile crossed his lips, only to fall away an instant later as he read the name on the final package.

_To Hercule Flambeau,_ the label said, and at once the strange mixture of warmth and melancholy that had subsided rose within him once more. He shook his head, disbelief swiftly conquered by the acceptance that of course the Father would have got a present for him. Of course he would. Given its placement with the others, it seemed he’d even guessed that Flambeau would drop by the presbytery for Christmas. Really, the thief didn’t know whether to be annoyed with himself for being so predictable or simply admire the brilliance of his beloved priest.

Extinguishing his cigarette, he picked up the parcel and turned it over in his hands. It would be perfectly reasonable to open it now, but a part of him wanted to save it, to savour the anticipation for a little while longer. With a wry smile at his own sentimentality, he tucked it into the bundle he'd used to bring his own gift for the Father. A moment later, it was carefully secured in place on his back, ready for when he made his getaway.

From an inside pocket, he took one of his trademark handkerchiefs embroidered with an F and placed it in the space where the gift had been. He was stealing it in a sense, after all, even if it was meant for him. And besides, it was a gift from the Father. Whatever lay within, that alone was enough for Flambeau to consider it a treasure worthy of his calling card.

Stepping back to the doorway, he took a last long look around the kitchen, committing every cup and bauble to memory. Something to look back on; to think of on those rare occasions when he wondered how a settled life would feel. Then he turned away and switched off the light, and headed upstairs without a backward glance.

Quietly, he eased his way past the wooden door into the bedroom. Father Brown slumbered peacefully on, and Flambeau paused, marvelling for a moment that such sharp intelligence could exist in one who appeared so soft and unassuming. On impulse, he tiptoed over to the bed and leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to the man’s temple. “Joyeux Noël, Father", he murmured, before turning away to leave.

He pushed the curtain aside once more and opened the window, glad of having gloves to shield him from the chill of the frame. As he eased himself out onto the rooftop, he thought he caught a soft whisper from behind him.

“Happy Christmas, Hercule.”

He paused, then ducked back to stare through the darkness at the bed, but the priest’s eyes remained closed and he appeared as deeply asleep as ever. A trick of the mind? Or had he woken? Or even been awake since the thief arrived? Flambeau couldn’t be sure. With a soft smile and a shake of his head, he pulled himself out onto the tiled roof. Soon, his black-clad form melted into the shadows, and he vanished once more out into the night.


End file.
